


Mustang Kids

by WhimperSoldier



Series: Rolling Over Hills and the Roundabouts [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Multi, like a twisted version of friends with more crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-06-03 17:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6620323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimperSoldier/pseuds/WhimperSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They smash windows, key cars. Kids people call them, but kids don’t press loaded guns to temples and think about blowing someone’s brain out, painting the sidewalk red, red like Clary’s hair. Luke says they have no regard for anyone but themselves. He says they love each other, enough to kill, he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Zella Day's "Mustang Kids"

They ruled the streets, twisted mess of people thrown together in a rundown apartment worth more than a Tiffany's store. Laws fall under them like dominos, cracked and splintered by a shotgun blast.

Jace had a crown tattooed across his throat, marks down his spine that Clary liked to trace after a few puffs of the good stuff. He had a baseball bat dyed brown in blood with sharpie marks interlaced, signed by his girlfriend. One of his eyes was almost always black and blue. His car was a beat-up 1962 Dodge Polara with a stuck door, no roof and rusty locks. His vise was the fight rings uptown, bringing home bloody money and an even bloodier smile.

Clary shaves half her head one night with Magnus’ electric razor before throwing the bright strands over a bridge a few streets away. She likes to take Jace’s bat to rich art stores, cover the block with whole buckets of paint, swirling her wrecked converse through the slick, making spirals and marks in the mess. She takes cans of spray paint to walls, decorating shit with Jace’s face, the curve of Izzy’s neck, detailed art of Alec’s eyes, the bow of Magnus’ lips, Simon’s broken glasses. Clary had a particularly nice shade of red lipstick she stole from Isabelle she liked to wipe across the lips of unsuspecting boys in the club just to watch the spray of blood when Jace’s fist connects with the kid’s nose.

Isabelle would bring boys home, whispering sweet nothings into their hair, brown, black, blonde, bald, drawing them into her room. She liked to scream, loud and horse and a touch too dramatic to be anything other than false. Izzy played with whips, her wall lined with them, giving the boys a shock and her friends a laugh. Her wardrobe was half gifts from past suitors, half stolen, their tags shifting slightly when she yanks a window open. Her jewelry box is overflowing, diamond rings and ruby bracelets, emerald earrings and cat eye necklaces wink from their place of honor next to her weapons. Her and Clary take turns painting nails and trading kisses, gossiping with Magnus while he runs delicate colored fingers through Alec's hair. Izzy plays with boys like toys, but never Simon, him she loves to wind up just to watch him fall, beautifully, onto the bed, his cheeks flushed and her hair a mess.

Simon likes to watch her, presses small touches to her back when she dances around the apartment in little more than underwear. Izzy loves Simon like the sun loves the moon, they revolve around each other, never really touching, just out of reach, coming together once and a blue moon in complete darkness. Isabelle loves boys but she likes Simon. He trails around town with one lense of his glasses broken and a shit stringed guitar thrown over his shoulder. He brings a boy around a few times, hispanic and beautiful, handing him a joint and watching his lips as he takes a drag. The first time they kiss, front and center on the broke ass couch in the living room, Izzy tried to jump into Simon’s lap. Raphael climbs up the fire escape to press frantic kisses to Simon’s mouth. Sometimes Izzy moans extra loud when Raphael is over.

Alec likes to paw a joint off Jace, breathing deep and pressing smoky kisses down his boyfriend’s chest, following the trails as they drift upwards. The others like to watch as Alec mouths up his neck before exhaling lightly into Magnus’ mouth, trapping the smoke between joined lips. He pierced his own nose, a small hoop, their second year, dyed his hair to match Magnus’ gold, and pawned a hat off a rival, a flat wide brim hat that matched his black outfits. Ink stained knuckles curled at loose hair at Magnus’ nape, tattoo spelling out fearless marking his fingers. When they gain the privacy, Alec likes to coat his lips in a vivid pink lacquer and try to see how long it takes to smear the lot of it across Magnus’ skin.

Magnus’ fell into them, his eyes too keen to be anything other than a survivor. He has more makeup than Isabelle, expensive pieces Alec pockets from their smash and grabs only to press them into Magnus’ palm when they're grinding, sticky, on their mattress. Bloody kisses become a thing of beauty and he almost forgets how delicate a firm had can feel. He likes to cover Izzy with jewelry, watch them twinkle between her breasts and catch Alec’s warm smile from the reflection in the mirror. They both have guns, Alec’s a bright white piece, his its opposite. During the drive-by’s, he likes to watch his boyfriend’s smile, a vicious curl to his pouty mouth that makes Magnus want to press him into the torn interiour of Jace’s car. So he does.

They are twisted, ask the cop hunting them. They smash windows, key cars. _Kids_ people call them, but kids don’t press loaded guns to temples and think about blowing someone’s brain out, painting the sidewalk red, red like Clary’s hair. Luke says they have no regard for anyone but themselves, that they will kill for each other and never to approach one alone unless you are looking for the pack to back them up. He says they love each other, enough to kill, he thinks.

He’s not wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

Sharing is caring and they don’t do enough of either. 

After a fight Jace likes to come home with wrapped knuckles he drags down Clary’s side, smearing dark stains down pale skin. Wins mean victory sex, wild and vicious and bloody, lifted thighs and slamming of bodies on walls. Loses lead to sullen nights with smooth vodka and slow breathing, fogging windows. She likes a brand of pastel pink sunglasses, the frames chipped from a punch, about as much as her purple necklace Jace stole from a display window. He kicks the heel of his boot into glass and watches with awe as cracks snake up the middle until they shatter into dust under his sole. The sounds of gunshots cracking into the air rings in his ears when he fucks Clary.

When it rains, it pours and when it pours, Clary takes cans of tan paint out to peeling billboards, their paper curling inward, yellowed with age, and sculpts bodies, watching as they drip away, the hues swirling together in a beautiful brown mess. She brings Izzy to take turns swirling cheap liquor around their mouths and swap burning kisses.Magnus mixes jack with his coffee and paints his toenails on rickety wooden stools taken during a bar fight. He dresses in long kimonos that draped heavily over his shoulders and perfectly fall when Alec catches his eye from their bed. They bleach their tips to match, swapping spit between tinfoiled strands of hair. 

Magnus is magic. His fingers, painted and slick, dip into pockets as smooth as they do along the arch of Alec’s spine. His worn pack of cards provides the perfect distraction to teach Alec; he spins his fingers, tossing aces and spades and keeping attention on him as he does so masterfully. They share a lobster meal that night in their room, Alec pressing buttery kisses long Magnus’ neck before licking him clean.

Simon’s body is a tally board. His back is a mess of raised scratches almost as bright as Izzy’s lips and no less lovely. Strings of bruises line his hips, dug in with pleasure and laced with pain, his mouth is always a bit more swollen after and when it gets stormy, Simon sports a ring of bruises around his neck, shadows of Rafael's fingers.

Alec takes bats to mailboxes and watches as they sail over the hood. Magnus howls from the backseat, his head thrown back and his throat exposed in the most inviting way. Izzy signs robberies with ruby kiss marks on doors hanging from hinges. She does the same to Simon. And Clary. And sometimes Magnus is she if feeling particularly vindictive. 

Luke gets notes every once and awhile. Napkins marked up with Clary’s hand, a bloody bill from Jace, Magnus’ favorite color nail polish, one of Alec’s empty shell casing, or just a slip of paper, a perfect impression of red lips pressed into it. But if they are feeling particularly lucky, high on the score or just high in general, they will slip him a polaroid, the color faded and inky, showing the group in various states of dress and their middle fingers pointed at the camera.

He’s taken to posting them above his desk.


	3. Bad Habit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all and thank you for the comments and kudos!

Jace would press chaste kisses to Clary’s mouth the moment Alec’s boot hit polished wood of some poor rich saps door. The sound of splintering led to a rally cry, a visceral scream of joy. They would flood in, a mess of tattered clothes and high-end accessories from a shattered storefront window six blocks down.

Izzy liked the closets, tearing through wardrobes like a banshee, tossing pounds of fabric over her shoulder to see how it looks with her complexion. She presses ruby kisses to the mirrors before taking her heels to them, watching the shards scatter across the bedroom floor and into the yards of fabric worth more that the house itself. After, she throws french doors open to feel the breeze drift across bare skin and ruined floors.

Half dressed in a _borrowed_ suit, Magnus passes around a bottle of Bordeaux, alternating sips between crackers with spray cheese, teardrop diamond earrings flashing in the light inviting Alec to nibble on more than the food. Alec likes bedrooms, particularly the beds. He tears the sheets to pieces and scatters the shitty throw pillows to make room for moving bodies. After all, Magnus taught him the valuable lesson of how in someone else’s bed, sex is just a little bit sweeter.

Simon presses rich chocolates into Clary’s mouth while she paints over the walls, thick black marks that look like scars across the tan wallpaper. She layers the paints then sits back to watch Jace smash expensive vases, tossing the shards into the paint, and sitting behind her to watch the inky mess drip onto the pristine white carpet.

Izzy throws gowns over the banister, watching them float down into the entranceway covered in glass. She puts on a fashion show, hips moving invitingly fueled by wine and backdropped by Clary’s creations. The dance ends in Clary’s lap, their lips locking to the sound of Magnus shuffling through an antique record collection and then to the scratch of a needle and the croon of overpriced vinyl.

Simon gets pulled into Jace’s lap, sharp knees pressed into his back. Simon invites himself to lick at the tattoos lining Jace’s collarbone until he’s pulled away by his hair by Isabelle who leaned over laps to press her warm mouth to his pink lips. The mess of bodies ends up on the floor, laughing and pressing slippery kisses between themselves.

The cops are called when they sobered up enough to recognise the house was still in one piece and rectified it with bats to the windows and shoes to walls. Jace looked smug at the layers of plaster that flutter down like rain to land in settle in Clary’s hair like snowflakes. Alec sets the polaroid on the solid wood mantle and takes picture after picture of Magnus, sprinkled in white and with a smile of the same color, and the others, spinning happily around half-dressed.

When Luke pulls into the lot, the first thing to greet him is a picture, still warm and held to the splintered door by a thriftshop pocket knife, most likely from the robbery a few blocks down. He could follow the trail of destruction, torn dressed scattered across the dining room, the bodices sat at the table like people waiting for a meal. Isabelle always did have a taste for the ironic. Soiled sheet in the master were bagged for forensic but Luke knew both Alec and Magnus were much too smart to be that easy. The art, flowing from one from one side of the house to the other, was all Clary, thick swirling lines interspaced with solid black markings, their gang tag, a geometric inverted shape that Jace laced with pottery worth thousands. He hid his smile behind his hands before turning to talk to the owners. 

His kids always had a flare for the dramatic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK AT ALL OF THIS YOU GUYS!!!
> 
> A similarly wonderful story by thegayestshadowhunter Storm Cloud Bruises you can find here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6738994/chapters/15402619
> 
> A beautifully done moodboard by RayenOfDeadStarsAndPlanets here: http://www.gomoodboard.com/boards/0zzhjuIu/share
> 
> A playlist I made for this story on 8tracks here: http://8tracks.com/leagallyinsane/mustang-kids
> 
> Finally, if you wanna talk just hangout, find me on tumblr here: http://whimper-soldier.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As with most shitty things in life, Luke gets shot on a Monday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you of being so patient for so little words! RayenOfDeadStarsAndPlanets gave me the prompt of Luke getting shot so thank you and have some plot!

As with most shitty things in life, Luke gets shot on a Monday. It takes two hours and a handful of minutes before the news reaches ears who tell mouths who all scuttle back to Magnus or Izzy respectfully. Like spiders plucking their webs, they put their ears to the ground.

It was Jace who caught the break, literally, a shattered collarbone of a low hanging drug dealer who squealed like a pig when Clary pulled a neon ceramic knife from her thigh and pressed it against the pudgy skin of his neck.

That lead them to a bar, scummy and run-down with sticky countertops Simon jumps to smack the sawed-off shot out of the bartenders hand before pressing his pistol to the skin of his temple. The word is like thunder when they say it, an echoing sound of a war drum set within children's hearts.

_Who?_

They leave a vicious trail of blood behind them, pouring it out quicker than the NYPD can mop it up. Simon is the only one of the group to know the whole truth about Luke’s relationship with Clary or their lack thereof. It’s a sore spot in her life that will bring only pain and a broken lip to anyone who asks. Jace took three punches before he dropped the topic, mostly due to his shattered jaw and the blaze of rage it left in Clary. 

Tearing through the city left scars and she made sure they were bloody. Tag after tag, each sloppier than the last, the simplest way to get the boys in blue to nip at their heels but never really reach them in time to stop one of them from doing something violent. Izzy laced up a sexy black number, marching into a club with sleek confidence. The swing in her hips got her past the bouncers at the VIP section and the whip curled around her thigh got her the information she needed from a sweaty mob boss smoking a cloying cigar. Magnus lifted a keycard from a disgruntled secretary and the next day the police's case files were missing and a cartoon cat eye was draw in their place with gold eyeliner. 

They got results and Magnus would hum and rub firm fingers down Clary’s back as he mused about how cruel the good guys turned when one of their own was gunned down in a not so blaze of glory.

Alec reloaded their guns, the steady clicking of bullet to magazine to the final scrape of the sheath, it was like a lullaby, soothing as when Luke would do it when she was young. She said as much, Isabelle took it as an invitation to press soft kisses along the nape of Clary’s neck.

Raphael's gang lends them bikes, shining and expensive with the promise of payment whispered into Simon’s ear. Izzy cooed about the power between her thighs when Simon licked into Raphael's mouth, filthy and slick.

Like all things wonderful, they find the bastard on a Saturday, bright and beautiful, the sun shines radiant on the broken face of a mugger. He cries and he whimpers and Clary doesn't stop until Simon tugs lightly on her shirt sleeve and presses his loaded gun into her fingers. The handle is blood warm and feels like justice in her hand. The taste of power sends her licking her chops like a predator, her teeth flashing under red lipstick as the barrel lays gracefully on the man’s broken lip. He is sobbing, deep, soul-racking wails that moves no one. Like a firing squad they stand, righteous and ethereal, heaven-sent.

Luke is discharged on a Tuesday, his side wrapped and a tiny bottle of pills pressed into the pocket of his jeans. He grips his side as he limps into the warehouse and spots the body, Clary’s, his sweet little girl, first. His face is a mess, crooked nose from the butt of a gun, split lip and swollen eyes staring blankly at the holes in the roof. Luke sighs long and hard before planting his hands on his hips and moving forward. Sargents toss around words like _torture, mutilation, sick and twisted individuals,_ but Luke knows the truth.

Clary has reason to be angry, her whole life was stripped from her and he took part, but this, this act of hatred was not a nail in the coffin so much as a penny in the bank. She may hate him but she also loves him and from the tag drawn along the far wall, this was not murder to her, or her friends, this was divine retribution, karma, justice in its most vicious form.

God Complex. Feelings of Superiority. Characteristics of deranged thinking, they write in their new folders when they take him off the case, putting it in the hands of another detective who will only piss those kids off, calling them scientific names when Luke knows a few that fits them all: _Slightly broken _. Luke waits outside his formal hearing, muscles tight, fingers wringing around the small locket, flashes of a red-headed little girl dancing behind his eyelids.__

__That night Clary dreamt of bleached bones, the color red, her mother alone in her hospital room, unseeing eyes watching her as she walks away._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A similarly wonderful story by thegayestshadowhunter Storm Cloud Bruises you can find here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6738994/chapters/15402619
> 
> A beautifully done moodboard by RayenOfDeadStarsAndPlanets here: http://www.gomoodboard.com/boards/0zzhjuIu/share
> 
> A playlist I made for this story on 8tracks here: http://8tracks.com/leagallyinsane/mustang-kids
> 
> Finally, if you wanna talk just hangout, find me on tumblr here: http://whimper-soldier.tumblr.com


	5. Out of It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late at night when the buildings light up, he crawls onto the back of Raphael’s bike and they fly down mostly empty streets, the flexing muscles under Simon’s fingertips jumping every time he runs his nails across them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ABlueLightInTheDark wanted some Saphael so... I kinda did it? I love Izzy too much not to include her and the twisted romance between the three of them is one of my favorite things to write. Sorry?
> 
> On another note, if anyone wants to give me some prompts from this AU feel free!

Simon is picked up for distribution, small charges that would be dropped considering he tosses a week’s profit down a storm drain and makes it a whole six blocks before the donut eating assholes hit him from behind. He spits onto the sidewalk to watch it mix with the blood from his scraped knees.

The drunk tank is overcrowded and reeks of piss and vomit. A few guys in the corner are shaking, their designer suits smeared with bile and what smelles like vanilla vodka. The only seats are surrounding a man slouched on his side, his hair slicked back and one eye bruised to match his knuckles.

The warmth stirring in his belly erupted into flames the moment the man’s inked fingers caught the officer’s chin when they came to release him. They swarm him like ants, grabbing arms and legs and throwing him onto the floor like Simon wanted to.

It was almost child’s play to slip out and down the stairs amid the chaos, his glasses perched on the tip of his broken nose. Izzy pounces the moment he enters the door, pressing smooth kisses along the curve of his neck. Simon can hear the gentle rock of Alec’s bed. He laughs into her hair, then the silky lines of her stomach, then the fold of her thighs.

He left early, lounging outside the police station watching the door open and close until finally he exits, black hair shining in the sunlight and leather jacket tacky from dried blood. Simon strides over, his long legs matching pace. The man glances over, dark eyes bright and questioning. Biker gang leaders don't often get guests.

His name is Raphael and his bed is almost as plush as Izzy’s. Simon takes him apart slowly and then all at once, reveling in the cries and the turnabout. He laps along the raised edges of his scratches decorating Raphael’s back and savors the taste of his name coming from his lips.

They meet a few more sweet, sweat-soaked times before Simon brings him around the house. Jace runs a critical eye down the taper of Raphael’s waist and presses possessive fingers along the line of Clary’s thigh. Simon convinces Raphael to fuck him in his bed and after finishing, boneless and floating, he listens with a smirk as Izzy cries out across the hall.

Late at night when the buildings light up, he crawls onto the back of Raphael’s bike and they fly down mostly empty streets, the flexing muscles under Simon’s fingertips jumping every time he runs his nails across them. Most nights he just crawls into his bed, watching the light play off scars and wondering if he could catch it in an inked drawing the way Clary can.

Simon likes to hum around the apartment, half formed lyrics featuring lovers tall, dark, and covered in red. Izzy wonders if he doesn't mean both of them. The sex gets slicker, sweeter, like candied kisses, and Izzy forgets to ask.

The mess of them lay sprawled across broken couches to patch up scratches and listen to Simon sing sultry notes with a shitty harmonica and a poorly-stringed guitar. Magnus runs delicate fingers along Alec’s back and Izzy perches herself on a crooked chair arm. Raphael becomes a staple of these nights and Izzy compromises by blowing bright pink bubbles with her swiped bubble gum and shakes black nail polish between her red nails in the face of her lover’s lover. An offer, an olive branch so rarely extended in their line of work. Raphael's smile turns sharp to match Isabelle’s and he stretches out his hand, his fingers curling attractively around the bottle. They both turn their pointed smirks in Simon’s direction sending a warm fuzz down to his toes.

Simon learns that the only thing more beautiful than Izzy licking broad strips across Simon’s chest is her rubbing harshly against Raphael’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A similarly wonderful story by thegayestshadowhunter Storm Cloud Bruises you can find here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6738994/chapters/15402619
> 
> Another great story switchblade girls and pistol boys by dearestpersephone here:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/6773827/chapters/15482062
> 
> A beautifully done moodboard by RayenOfDeadStarsAndPlanets here: http://www.gomoodboard.com/boards/0zzhjuIu/share
> 
> A playlist I made for this story on 8tracks here: http://8tracks.com/leagallyinsane/mustang-kids
> 
> Finally, if you wanna talk just hangout, find me on tumblr here: http://whimper-soldier.tumblr.com


	6. Kooks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His, Alec hums along a sloped spine to the sharp slice of shoulder blades, tender in the knowledge never will there be another that dug quite so deep or tore quite so much as Alexander Lightwood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the lovely Phil who always comments the nicest things. I have had the draft laying around for a few days and finally go around to fixing it up a bit. She wanted a bit more about Magnus and how he came to the group. I kinda did that? Maybe? It's mostly sex and feels.

It's quick money, Magnus reasons, and dark alleys never judge. He falls to his knees and he takes and takes until his mother starts eating again, commends him on finding steady work and Magnus throws up the moment the bathroom door closed behind him. Magnus sobs telling Alec she dies six weeks later.

He was not always this way, Magnus promises when they first start pressing warm kisses along the long lines of each other’s bodies and it means more than getting each other off. He’s done, for his mother, for Alec, for himself. Alec shuts him up and pushes Magnus onto his back, humming into dark hair dark promises of his own.

Alec wants to hear the good part. He whispers it into the fold of Magnus’ ear, their lives together, Magnus’ pawning his magic skills along a shitty stretch of highway, the wind makes his hair wild, his eyes even more so. His shirt is loose blue, hanging on a sickly frame, pants two sizes too large, stumbling into the nearest shady bar with rumbled ones the cashier skims over. 

Magnus catches Alec’s eye over the shoulder of a balding middle-aged accountant who’s fingers steadily climb his thigh. He pulls the torn bills into his arms and dumps them into Alec’s lab, his smile as dark as his eyes. He has such a delicate touch Alec almost misses it if he also wasn’t keeping such a sharp eye at the beautiful man with dust in his hair and a smile so wide it rings anything but true.

The night is whiskey-filled and sex-hazed, ending with a jimmied car lock and the pair drawing handprints down fogged windows, giggling like school children and passing Titanic quotes between smooth sips of liquor. They stumble along the road in a hitched truck, drunk and hazy, kiss-starved and warm, swapping spit and hissing their dreams out between orgasms.

Magnus runs before the sun hits the shutters in a nameless motel along a desolate highway and leaves Alec dizzy in a hotel room, a knife with a rose carved into the handle wedged into the pillow still smelling of sex. The scribbled note Magnus leaves calls it _ironic_ , throws about words like _destiny_ and _fate_ that he swiped the blade not an hour before he stuck his hand down Alec’s pants for completely different reasons than how the night ended.

Months, long weeks keeping pace behind him until Magnus caves and laughs, loud and pure, when Alec leads him to a hotel and books the honeymoon suite. Magnus whispers his name into his lover’s skin, like a brand, a mark, a grounding presence, as if his voice alone would keep him here, in his bed, in his heart. _God,_ Magnus cries when Alec presses deep, smiling into lube and spit and come, god how could this end anyway other than bloody?

Magnus is soft in all the right places, places Alec takes great pleasure finding and exploiting, often in bed. The silky creese of his elbow, the smooth expanse of his thighs, the pockmarked skin along on shoulder. Magnus is a live wire with Alec, electricity sparking when they so much as touch. He is refined and polished, beautiful in a deadly way, he is poised and sophisticated with perfectly shaped brows, long painted nails, and sharp outfits thrown across floors haste for the nearest flat surface.

He was not always this way and as with many things in his life, Alec doesn’t give a shit. A flirt, a tease, Magnus is all these things and Alec revels in the feeling of his fingers curling into dark hair, tugging until their lips smack together in a wet mess, warm with contentment and understanding; Magnus will always be there when Alec wakes up. _His_ , Alec hums along a sloped spine to the sharp slice of shoulder blades, tender in the knowledge never will there be another that dug quite so deep or tore quite so much as Alexander Lightwood.

He was not always this way, but Magnus is reckless and wild, like a flame flickering and dancing, and Alec takes it as his duty to keep his spark lit. A rouge shot tears into Magnus’ side and he screams while they patch him up with bottom shelf brandy and ace bandages. Alec sits beside him, sipping from the bottle and running strong fingers through dark curls that came undone from Magnus' carefully coifed up-do. Magnus lounges awkwardly on a shitty mattress and tugs at his broken lip when Alec takes the rose-hilted knife across his abdomen in a little X, shallow enough to bleed, deep enough to scar. , _A promise_ Alec mutters into Magnus' wrapped chest, for every injustice placed upon him they too shall be placed upon himself. _Sentimental_ Magnus hisses, kisses at the mark, stupid, ridiculous, sanctimonious, sacrilege to the only religion Magnus falls to his knees daily to worship.

He is not always this way Magnus swears, no one every is, Alec promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A similarly wonderful story by thegayestshadowhunter Storm Cloud Bruises you can find here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6738994/chapters/15402619
> 
> Another great story switchblade girls and pistol boys by dearestpersephone here:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/6773827/chapters/15482062
> 
> A beautifully done moodboard by RayenOfDeadStarsAndPlanets here: http://www.gomoodboard.com/boards/0zzhjuIu/share
> 
> A playlist I made for this story on 8tracks here: http://8tracks.com/leagallyinsane/mustang-kids  
> Another Playlist by the wonderful RayenOfDeadStarsAndPlanets: http://8tracks.com/strawhattrolls/mustang-kids
> 
> Finally, if you wanna talk just hangout, find me on tumblr here: http://whimper-soldier.tumblr.com


	7. What's A Girl to Do?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nurses drag her out and Clary screams, throwing out her legs and watching in detached hatred at the thick black streaks her shoes make on the hospital linoleum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW IT'S BEEN A WHILE, SUPER SORRY. I love everyone who is sending kudos and commenting, I love you all and I'm trying to get better at responding to them because I love the ideas!!
> 
> This chapter is for Kelly who wanted to know a little more about Clary and Luke and will hopefully excuse any mistakes this chapter is bound to have!

Clary has a box, pushed to the back of the box spring, shoved over empty cd cases and squares of ammo; scattered with little doodles, characters and sayings, and thick permanent marker scratched through the middle. _Before_ , it said like a scar.

Her mother’s necklace, too rusted to be allowed into the hospital; stacks of curling pictures, a family portrait stained with blood from where Clary had ripped it from the frame and the scar along her palm from the glass. Loose keys that lead nowhere but an empty home neither of them could gather the courage to return to or bear to let go of. Earrings, _family heirlooms_ her mother called them, cheap plastic shaped into teardrops the color of her hair. A sea shell from a shitty beach a few miles away placed in her hand by Luke, the only father who ever should have mattered. 

She took it out sometimes. Dark nights, stormy ones, anniversaries, birthdays, deaths, times to remember love and loss and sadness and the box makes an appearance.

They whisper stories to each other late at night when Clary has drank enough to be loose-limbed, floating. Alec says Luke thought Clary a demon and had her exorcised, Izzy scoffs with a disregarded sigh and with a flutter of her bangle adorned wrist, they are regaled with a daring tale of intrigue and love between suitors for Clary’s mother’s hand in marriage, ending with a deadly duel. Magnus claims it was magic, Simon picks true love. Their imaginations are so much more beautiful than reality.

They day she takes her first life Clary smuggles wildflowers into the coma ward hidden under her shirt to keep the bitchy nurse from commenting on the mascara running down her cheeks. Their leopard print scrubs clash with her eyeshadow and the blood on her boots but matches perfectly with the blank wall art Clary’s fingers itched with the need to paint over. They throw stink eyes to her as she sits down in reception, following the flow of people down the halls, the clacking of keys and the sounds the keypads make to unlock doors. Clary watches the shifts, Donna the head nurse always takes a five minute smoke break right before midnight and leaves enough room to slip past the hermetically clean doors.

It was never suppose to end this way, Clary thinks. A empty vase is tucked between pill bottles and half-empty eye drops and she slips the broken stems into the warm water, places them snug to the side of the bed. Her mother never moves, sits perfectly still like a doll, her hair done up in pretty curls by some sick asshole Clary can’t bare to think about.

The last time she was in this room she threw Luke out with wails before crawling on top of her mother and pushing a pillow to her parted lips. The nurses drag her out and Clary screams, throwing out her legs and watching in detached hatred at the thick black streaks her shoes make on the hospital linoleum. 

Her mother hated losing control of her body, hated to have a thing out of place. Her mother would have done the same, but, Clary knew, she would have gotten it done, what kind of daughter was she, she couldn't even give her mother this one thing, why wouldn't Luke?

_I can’t do it_ Luke pleaded _don’t make me do it_ , like a mantra, like he was asking forgiveness but Clary was not feeling forgiving, not while her mother’s corpse lay dressed up in a hospital room she was no longer allowed in. She raved, cried, tore pictures from their frames and smashed her mother’s fine china across the dining room so Luke would have to listen to the crack of glass under his heel if he wanted to cross the room to stop her. Clary didn’t know what pissed her off more, the loss of the set, or that Luke didn’t stop her. 

Records say it was a senseless act of violence, a random attack on a defenseless member of their police community. Clary dreams about it sometimes, dark twisted dreams starring her mother with gouges along her strong cheekbones and blood dripping from her mouth, her lips forming words Clary strains to hear until the only thing she can comprehend is the sickening silence before jerking upright drenched in sweat, entangled with her friends, her lovers, her family.

Izzy presses the lean length of her body along Clary’s side with Jace running sure fingers along her spine. Magnus and Alec lay tangled in their own embrace but tossed their feet into Clary’s, warming her toes with their mismatching socks. Simon sits awake at the head of the bed, his hands cradling her and his fingers rubbing gently along her scalp, his face soft, warm. She drifts back into sleep with a lazy stretch and the knowledge of her everythings surrounding her.

Her dreams become a faceless man who pulls a gun on her mother, a vision in her police blues, and the splatter his brains make when Clary’s bullet finds its place between his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A similarly wonderful story by thegayestshadowhunter Storm Cloud Bruises you can find here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6738994/chapters/15402619
> 
> Another great story switchblade girls and pistol boys by dearestpersephone here:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/6773827/chapters/15482062
> 
> A beautifully done moodboard by RayenOfDeadStarsAndPlanets here: http://www.gomoodboard.com/boards/0zzhjuIu/share
> 
> A playlist I made for this story on 8tracks here: http://8tracks.com/leagallyinsane/mustang-kids  
> Another Playlist by the wonderful RayenOfDeadStarsAndPlanets: http://8tracks.com/strawhattrolls/mustang-kids
> 
> Finally, if you wanna talk just hangout, find me on tumblr here: http://whimper-soldier.tumblr.com


	8. Powers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alec hisses, pushes him away, screams, demands to know who pushed their mouth to Magnus’ before him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp this has been a long time coming. This is for Ellen who wanted some Alec and Magnus and their fights. Not entirely happy with it but like it well enough to post. Enjoy!

They were screaming again, their voices cracking over their accusations. Magnus throws his arms up, his rings glittering in the low light that is still bright enough to shadow the bruise kissed along his cheek, the smear of his lipgloss slicking together with the blood from his bashed in nose.

He refuses to tell Alec who, why, anything other than trying to press kisses into his knuckles. Alec hisses, pushes him away, screams, demands to know who pushed their mouth to Magnus’ before him. Izzy can feel the tension rocket up in the room, the hair on the back of her neck raising. She was the one with bad relationships, shitty boys with mean smiles that Alec’s fist fit perfectly. 

They were solid, the bedrock of all of their relationships, the strongest of loves grounded within two people, two souls, on which their lives were centered, was fracturing around them. Clary wrapped sweaty palms around Izzy’s hand and her red nails dug into the soft skin whenever the screams raised in pitch. Simon was tucked under Jace’s arm, his feet worked under Raphael’s jeaned leg, their fingers intertwined. They all jumped when Magnus cried out in pain, Alec’s fingers dug into his chin, pressing into the heart of the bruise, a warning, a plead.

Unheeded, Magnus just moved forward, messily liplocking. Alec threw his head beck, rearing like an animal, his teeth bared in anger and outrage. He walked out, his face twisted up and ugly.

It rains that night, so long and so hard they can almost pretend Magnus sobs weren't echoing down the halls and resonating in their bones. They tangle their way into his empty bed, filling the holes and leaving the Alec shaped gap they couldn’t thread through.

_Why?_ they ask him, lips warm on wind-chilled skin, _why not answer his questions?_ they whisper through kisses, _no more problems, only love_ they promise. _My past is following me,_ Magnus sighs into Jace’s stomach, _my darkness will not be his,_ he says, _it already is,_ they mutter, _don’t you know?_ they question, _he is you and you are him and we are you, we are your darkness and you are ours._

_Ours,_ they hum like a threat he stitches into his bleeding heart. A patch for the hole Alec made when he tore himself away from his other half.

Magnus makes a simple breakfast and with their bellies full and their minds quiet, they twist themselves together on a single mattress to listen to Magnus spin a tale of twin souls torn asunder by gods to spend their lives searching for their other halves. Simon bites marks along Raphael’s collarbone in response. Jace kneads the knot at the base of Clary’s spine and she unspools like silk, spilling into Izzy’s lap. Magnus reaches his fingers out to trail along their bodies, filling himself full of them to hold the otherness at bay.

Alec comes back to them during the night, dripping from the storm and shivering, his eyes slanted in weary heartbreak. He folds Magnus into a tight hug, crushing their ribs together so they could feel the other’s heaving breaths. He joins their pile, curling around Magnus’ back and filling the void he left behind.

_Share your darkness with me_ Alec pleads into the plush lips, heated by loose limbs, _I will fight your demons_ Alec hisses into Magnus’ open mouth. 

_But who will fight yours?_ Magnus wants to ask. He doesn't.

He kisses him back instead.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Blood Stains](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9538094) by [Betterinblack1234](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Betterinblack1234/pseuds/Betterinblack1234)
  * [One More Drink Then I Swear That I'm Going Home (Truth is I Don't Really Have a Place to Go)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9576239) by [mthrfkrgdhrwego (universalchampbalor)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/universalchampbalor/pseuds/mthrfkrgdhrwego)




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